


gelicide

by ladykestrel



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 03:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2334443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladykestrel/pseuds/ladykestrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sitting on her golden throne, bearing a name that was not hers, Alina Starkov was pulling loose the pieces of a thing that she had been holding on to, that was long gone. With no one to reminisce the past, the queen of Ravka untied her anchors and set sail without them, into dark, still waters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gelicide

**Author's Note:**

> In which Alina has grown tired of resisting and the Darkling has gotten what he wanted. Written for the prompt "Hold me through this."

Time was such a fluid thing. It came and went, never waiting, never slowing. It slipped through fingertips, like water from a pond.

It had been years, decades, maybe even centuries - she never bothered to keep count anymore - since she had not been her own. The face in the mirror no longer held any recognition, despite its never changing, never aging features. A pair of amber eyes looked back, almost familiar, but never quite so. It was like waking up from a dream you knew you've had, but cannot recall.

And time has been exactly that - like a dream, vivid while you lived in it, distant when you looked back. It reminded the girl of those visits, once upon a time ago, when her body had been in one place, while her soul in another. The edges of her vision, much like those visitations, were murky, blurry, as if she were looking through running water, or painted glass.

Alina Starkov was no longer her own.

As the years passed, she found herself no longer caring.

Sitting on her golden throne, bearing a name that was not hers, Alina Starkov was pulling loose the pieces of a thing that she had been holding on to, that was long gone. With no one to reminisce the past, the queen of Ravka untied her anchors and set sail without them, into dark, still waters. Across the room her husband was in deep conversation with a Fjerdan – or was it Kerch? – ambassador. To the untrained eye, his tall, lean frame would appear relaxed and calm, paired with the leveled, measured tone of honey running over silk. But Alina knew, she had spent decades in acquaintance with that posture, with that voice. She had mastered it; she twisted and turned until it became something new, yet somehow familiar. Something of hers.

Alina Starkov, who bore the name no longer, watched as her husband carefully negotiated and wormed his way into receiving what he desired. She watched his fists tense, then unclench, then form again. She saw the slightest bit of irritation in the set of his jaw.

She watched as he manipulated the unsuspecting delegator into giving him everything. She did not blame him, he was only a misfortunate pawn on the board of her husband’s game of chess. And lose at his own game, the king did not. And so, Alina sat on her intricate chair – Saints forbid someone hear her use the dreaded word – and observed the scene unfolding before her with pity in her eyes. She had only pity to feel now, for the poor soul that was agreeing to terms he was not aware he was agreeing of. For the citizens of his country, who will pay the price of the conditions that were hidden in the shadows of her husband’s contract. For her own people, all of who were like kept like pet birds, only given a limited kind of freedom – and even then, it was under careful observation. For herself, because deep down an ounce of what was gone was still lingering, not detesting, but pitying the one that gazed back from each reflection.

A dark cloak turned as the foreign ambassador went to leave. The black material made its way closer to the dais, where the queen stood and Alina was met with the granite eyes that she had come to know better than her own. Her attention was drawn to the mouth that had kissed her countless times, and will kiss her countless more, which was drawn in half a smile. A smirk took rest on her husband’s angled face, making him appear centuries younger – like a boy from forever ago, an innocent soul that had made a promise in the shadows of the night.

“Smile,” the same calm voice rang through her years. “A frown is not a fit accessory for a queen to wear.”

The former saint looked up, to meet quartz and steel, thunder storms and open seas. She had no regards to give to the statement; she did not care for such sentiments. During this reign, the people did not know their queen for her smiles. During this reign, they only knew her as the cold during the winter months - so chilling, parents hid away their children in fear of frostbite. Bringing truth to the Darkling’s words from long ago, she had grown tired.

Despite her frosty demeanor, Alina’s lips turned up into a smile, that resembled more a grimace, but it made her husband happy and he, too, smiled as he took his wife’s hand and led her away to their chambers, leaving only darkness behind.

Later, when the candle’s light had already dimmed and silk sheets had settled onto bare flesh, the Ravkan queen lays in bed as the king caresses her body like a feather.

“It would seem,” the lips hovering over her collarbones were saying,”you have tipped the scales. I might just have to balance you.”

“Rueful be the day, when I would need you to reign me in, dearest husband.”

“So shall it would be, if you keep slipping further into whatever ocean of thoughts you have created for yourself.”

“Were that to happen, you will just have to hold me through it.”

“Always,” the teeth at her throat bit. Alina wondered if she hadn’t already drowned into that ocean, for where it not always freezing at the bottom of the waves? She was not sure.

Alina had found, ages ago, that it was easier to bear the weight at night. And much weight she had been carrying, for a long long time. She bore the weight of Alina Starkov, and all the orphans and soldiers she had grown up amongst. Of Sankta Alina, and all the lives her light had touched. Of Ravka’s queen, and every knee that hit the ground whenever in her presence. Of all the other identities she had acquired, and all the generations that she had outlived. Of the Devil’s bride, and all the nights he had made her his own. But she had made him hers, as well, for he had always been and always will be, in the end, her monster. And she was his.


End file.
